


Mind And Iron

by ballpoint



Category: 1610 - Fandom, Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Angst, Gen, picture prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-05
Updated: 2010-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers has lost his leg in battle, and is expelled from The Ultimates. Frustrated and unable to fight on the front lines, but refusing to accept his injury, Steve goes to Tony and asks for a favour. You can't always get what you want, but sometimes, you get what you need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind And Iron

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story takes place after the first arc of Ultimate Avengers and Ultimates, and goes sort of AU. There's no Orson Scott Card's canon in this story, Ults Steve is not a vampire, and the rest of it.
> 
> There is some ablelist language which is self directed.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters and their respective trademarks belong to Marvel and Walt Disney; no copyright infringement intended.

"Stay right there. On the mark. Hold the helmet up, like so -" each excited sentence underscored by the furious shutter of the camera. Steve self consciously held the helmet at his side, clad in the dark blue uniform of Stark Industries, standing beside the low, sleek bike.

"Good, good. You're giving it to me, mate. Wicked." The young photographer said, his head bending over his camera. He stood on a wheeled dais, his assistants slowly dragging it away with ropes, with himself and the camera moving smoothly and steadily, away from Steve, so that he could get the background in the shot in stages.

Steve shifted, his face flushed with embarrassment. Back then in the '30s, it was just him in front of a plain canvas, clad in costume, shield held in hand, face serious as he faced the camera. Now? Instead of being enclosed in a white room, he was on a private race track, in the twilight, the dying flames of sunlight on his face. Off to the side, out of the view of the camera, were a swarm of assistants, crawling with light meters, moving equipment and just generally havering about.

"I love it, showing me the leg, the narrative! That's wicked, mate, you're feckin' biblical."

As he rambled on, Steve's lips tightened with the humiliation of it, which only sent the photographer into paroxysms of intense elation. "You're giving it a lot of lead, mate. This is will be epic in its epicness. That expression in your eyes! Love it."

When this shoot was finished, Steve told himself, he'd be giving _someone_ an earful.

* * *

" _The next war will be genetic_ , that's what they kept telling us; moving from a supposition to a lament, and made it a form of religion. Men who should have known better, allowed the idea to flourish, along with God and voodoo, and more fool for Fury to follow it. The waste is unacceptable. So, I've changed the game." Gregory spread his arms wide, and Tony half expected his brother to brandish tablets of stone in each hand, with a roll of thunder underscoring his words.

Of course, instead of being on Mount Sinai, they were in Gregory's newly acquired digs on Fifth Avenue. New York welcomed Gregory's wealth and stature just a little more eagerly than it bore Tony's, much to the latter's bemusement. Gregory had bought out the entire Trump Tower complex for one, and proceeded to redesign it in his own image, planning permission be damned. The building the colour of platinum and reflected sky, and Gregory carried the colour scheme from the outside, and threaded it through the interiors. All shades and tones of white and silver, which was _hell_ on the tiniest hangover, as it took the sunlight and reflected it by hundred fold. Bloody, buggering bastard.

"What are you trying to say, Greg?" Tony remained seated, observing his brother through lowered lashes, as he nursed his scotch with the careful touch of a lover. "The day grows short, and I am terminally bored. Both the cardinal sins of our time."

"Yes, yes, of course we can't afford to _bore_ Tony," Gregory gave a curt bow and an exaggerated flourish with his hands. "Never mind that the next war being genetic is such a misnomer. People breed, genes are arbitrary, and - _Tony_ ," his brother sent him a look of pity and sympathy. "Aren't you bored by your lack of ambition? Don't you wish to change the world?"

"I change a world," Tony allowed himself to grow heavy, so that his chair swung with his weight. "Just by existing."

"Oh, Tony," Gregory bared his teeth in a grin. "So does cancer."

Tony didn't bother rising to the bait, only sipped at his whiskey a bit more. "You've made the concept of the Super soldier almost ubiquitous, with new and improved results."

"And you think it vulgar."

"Fury gave you the contracts; at this conjecture, it matters not what I think at all."

"I hear a 'but'," Gregory stuck his hands the pocket of his fine, white linen slacks, and Tony stayed seated where he was, half surprised that they still knew each other's mannerisms quite well. After all, they had lived on the opposite sides of the world for the past decade.

"There are vile and utterly contemptible rumours afoot -obviously made up to besmirch your good name - which say that you're looking to turn Rogers out to pasture, as it were."

At Gregory's lift of his eyebrows, Tony sipped at his drink. It seemed the rumours - as vile and utterly contemptible as they were, were totally true. It would be nice if his brother surprised him sometimes.

* * *

"Hey, Cover Girl," Bucky waved the latest issue of _Vanity Fair_ at Steve. "Looking good, and with that photographer guy, Dodgy? That's something."

"Can it, Bucky," Steve growled as he took a swing of beer. On the cover stood Steve, helmet in hand, the background of the city photoshopped in, merging with the racetrack that he stood on. The colours saturated, with an overriding grainy texture, which hinted at age, the streaks of ink hinting at the end of a reel of film, but overall the mood and the sunset indicated the end of an era. He stood there, the ugly metal of his steel leg showing that he was a gimp, all over again.

"Dodgy is a good photographer, look at the lines, the saturation of colour, the _composition_ ," Bucky noted, before taking a shot of oxygen from his portable tank. Bucky would have had words about the shot, Steve supposed, since he had made his living from photography for almost forty years, before retiring with Gail, kids and grandkids. "There's respect, and symbolism. That's a damned good photo, whether you like it or not-" the sentence interrupted by liquid, heavy coughing, his body shuddering with it. Steve gently reached over, and rubbed his back until the fit of coughing passed.

They were in Bucky's backyard, Steve having a brew, looking out and over. A tree in the back garden with a tire swing, the scrub of dirt creating a bald spot in the otherwise lush and neatly kept back lawn.

"The photograph, it's become my send off," Steve gritted his teeth, his jaw set and rigid.

"What do ya mean?"

"I got turned away, again. Because of my leg."

"But you're walking, you got it replaced-?"

"It's not the same," Steve shook his head. "They have newer super soldiers now, better."

Bucky clapped his hand on Steve's shoulder, his touch light and glancing.

"You've had a good run, Steve. Some of the guys in our platoon - they didn't even have that."

"What are you trying to say?"

"That your war is over," Bucky's eyes were kind. He looked his age - rheumy eyes, liver spots on the backs of his hands, partially shrunken in his clothing. He'd never walk straight again, will never be young again. God, when had Bucky gotten so _old_? "Our wars are over, our time, over. It's only just caught up with ya."

Steve looked away and over to the tire swing, how it turned and twisted in the wind. He rubbed his face with his hands, willing his eyes to stay dry.

"No, as long -"

Bucky lifted up the glossy cover of _Vanity Fair_ , the picture and the title _The Sun Sets On The Original Super soldier_. "They've pretty much eulogised you, in picture and word. Steve -" Bucky's face was filled with sympathy for him and what he was going through, but the words and their sentiment hadn't changed.

"You're done."

"No," Steve's voice quivered at the edges, a breath of disbelief.

"That bastard... Firecracker, was it? He took your leg off, clean, Steve. You're done."

* * *

 _You're done._ The words stayed with Steve long after he left Bucky. He hopped on the subway - bar none, it was still the best way to get around NYC, until he felt restless enough to get off. Off duty, he shrugged into jeans, with a cap shading his features. He got off his at his stop, and started to walk. Not caring if he were jostled by people, the wails of sirens and the _hum_ of the city as he passed buskers playing for coin, dropped a note into an old, empty soup tin beside a hobo wrapped up in a threadbare blanket on the sidewalk. Daylight was ebbing away, replaced by the night lights, which were just as bright, if not as warm, but Steve never felt it, never knew, as he thought about his last meeting with Gregory Stark.

During Steve's tangles with The Red Skull, Nick Fury handed over all contracts to Gregory Stark. "Tony's a nice guy, but a weak sister," Fury had said once, long ago. "Everyone likes Tony, and Tony likes everyone. That might be a problem. His brother on the other hand - well."

Steve never followed up that line of thought. At the time, they had the pressing issue of Gah Lak Tus, and the end of the world to contend with. Now, Gregory Stark had taken over The Ultimate Avengers, in more ways than one. Steve didn't mind Gregory - much- he was a cold fish, yeah, but he got stuff done. Steve had fought against Gregory Stark's War Machine, so there was a grudging respect for the man's technology, if not for the man himself.

He never gave Gregory a second thought; not until after he lost his lower leg, when he swept in, aloof and arctic, ever clad in his white suit.

"I heard," Gregory said, barely looking at Steve's leg. "A waste."

Steve stopped his exertions on the rowing machine. His shirt had sweat right through, clinging to his skin, his face and arms glowed with sweat. If hadn't known better, he would have sworn that Gregory looked uncomfortable being around the sweating, heaving soldiers in the Triskelion gym.

"I'm getting it fitted with a new -"

"I have word that you're healing nicely. Two days from tomorrow, there will be a photo shoot and an interview with _Vanity Fair_. You will stress the importance of The Ultimate Avengers, as well as your legacy."

"I-"

"Ms Jarvis will be the go between until I say otherwise, understood?"

Before Steve had a chance to answer in the affirmative, Gregory made his exit.

Two days after Gregory's visit, Steve had that photo shoot. _Yeah, just like that, staring into the sunset, wicked!_.

He thought nothing about it after his initial suspicions, kept on doing his physio, his genetically enhanced system made him on the mend easier, his artificial limb fitted. If Steve never glanced at his feet, he was still normal, he still _felt_ normal, as if the limb was still there. Even though his readings said that such feelings were not abnormal.

"Workouts with the new team? Not now, Steve."

"When, General Fury?" Steve gritted the question through his teeth, not wanting to smash the table underneath his palms into kindling.

"Not now."

And he had to be content with that, although he knew something wasn't right, and knowing, he'd go back to headquarters, get into the gym and pump iron, and tried to get used to his new leg. He was ninety five percent to capacity, they had to take that into consideration, _didn't they_?

Three days before the magazine hit the news stands, Steve had an invite to Gregory Stark's office, "Today at 18:00 hours. Will that suit, Mr Rogers?"

Steve knew by now, no matter how nicely put, a request by Gregory Stark was just another order.

18:00 hours found him at Gregory's office as agreed. Gregory's office was _bright_. Shades of white, sand and the tones in between, with a little rock garden in the corner, with curved grooves in the sand, and the pale rocks set just so. Gregory gestured Steve towards a chair, one the colour of cream, and plush, too as he sat down, opposite Gregory's desk.

"For you," Gregory said, without further ado, as he gestured to the package in front of Steve. Wordlessly, Steve ripped the envelope open, as he saw the cover. Flipped through the article, which told of his background, sang his praises, had the summation and distance of an epitaph. The pictures scattered through the piece with the artful carelessness of a family photo album, from frail kid, to newly thawed from the ice. Tripped over to the changing teams - from Ultimates to New Ultimates back to Ultimates again. Steve raised his eyes to Gregory, not surprised, but still pained to see dismissal there.

His back faced Steve as he looked out the window, New York City stretched before and below them, like a woman with all her peaks and valleys, her body studded with jewellery and glitters.

"I've read your medical records," he began. "The doctors say - what they say. That your mind is strong, your body has rallied better than expected, but for all intents and purposes, you are, maimed."

"I've just got fitted for a new leg," Steve flexed his fingers around the handles of the chair he sat in. "If I work hard, I could-"

Gregory lifted his head, his profile stern. "I hear that you're a patriot. That you risked life volunteering for the super soldier serum in the first place."

"Yes."

"Captain Rogers." Gregory turned around now, giving Steve his full attention, and rather like Tony, he had it, that sort of magnetism that made one want to listen to what he was going to say. No jerky, sudden moves he, just smoothness personified. After his dealings with Tony Stark, Steve almost grew accustomed to the slickness.

"Dr Stark." Steve replied, knowing Gregory Stark tended to be partial to the honorific.

"Sometimes, to be a patriot, you have to step away. You have to realise, it isn't your war anymore."

Steve closed his eyes for a second, and opened them again. It was seventy years ago, it was yesterday, when he got ushered out of the recruitment office, because of his gimp leg and being too frail.

"So this-" Steve lifted the glossy doorstop of a magazine. "These are my walking papers?"

"You have _Vanity Fair_ , as an amanuensis, and chronicle." Gregory Stark answered. "Others wish they could have so much. With the esteemed Christopher Hitchens on words, and the photographer of _the moment_ , the send off is fitting. Appropriate."

"Dr Stark-"

"And our meeting is over," Gregory interrupted silkily. " Leave your details with Ms Jarvis, and she'll forward your belongings to you."

"Wait a goddamn minute-"

"Good day, Captain."

And just like that, Steve was nothing again.

* * *

Tony Stark couldn't say that he missed the Ultimates. Much. Hank and his issues, Jan and her issues - both, now gone. Natasha, gone. That ill fated fling with Carol Danvers. At this point in time, Tony never questioned his dealings with women. Exacting, curious, unstable, but beautiful creatures. One could only love them fleetingly; they were too unstable to commit to otherwise.

But still, it had to be said. "I am bored, utterly and terminally. I can say that, can't I? Considering I had cancer? Or is it still too soon?"

Pepper was not amused, and in the ways of a spoil sport, she ignored his comment completely. "Tony, you need to sign these accounts, and then, if you can, give me something to tell the shareholders."

"Ah, is Gregory flashing that filthy lucre again?"

"Throwing it around like a drunken sailor on shore leave," Pepper admitted. "Right now might not be a good time to take Stark Inc public, put it that way."

"Why not?" Tony stuck his hands in the pockets of his robe. "It could be fun, or at least, interesting."

"You like being rich too much to risk 'fun' or ' at least, interesting'."

"Hmm," Tony pressed a finger to his chin, thought about his beach house in the Maldives, his chalet in Gstaad, the supermodels in between and came to the conclusion that Pepper had a salient point. Poverty would never suit him. "Quite."

The discreet knock at the door interrupted them both. "Mr Stark," the maid said, her hands clasped in front of her, her head bowed as if waiting for a blessing - or a rebuke. "Mr. Rogers is here to see you, if you're free."

Pepper frowned, her face flushed with suspicion. "I thought that you were over the Ultimates? As I remember-?"

"Run along now, Pepper, darling. I have pressing matters to attend to."

"Like choosing between Jameson's or Chivas Regal?" Annoyed, Pepper shoved the papers into her briefcase, and stalked out on heels as sharp as blades, her hair streaming like a scarlet banner behind her. Tsk, Tony sighed. It was too late to tell her to mind the new parquet floor. He'd only just had it laid last week. Oh la, women. He hated seeing them go, but loved to watch them leave.

"Mr Stark?" The maid prompted.

"I have a minute," Tony beamed. "Oh, and could you do me a Long Island iced tea? I'm absolutely parched."

Chapter Two

"So, Gregory threw you out with the day's trash, then?" Tony crossed his legs at the ankles, half sitting, half leaning against the corner of the desk, sipping something from a highball glass. Tony hadn't changed at all, Steve observed, ruffled hair, and still in the stages of undress, but Tony looked a bit better now, less worn.

"Yeah," Steve stood in front of the window, the garden of the mansion below him. In a strange way, it was a bit like coming back to - not home, no - just something familiar. Steve knew the mansion well, with its long vertical windows, their brocade curtains, which reminded him of the richly illustrated Queen's dresses in fairy tales. The lushly decorated carpet underfoot, the study, with the books lined and displayed, vertical lines of colour, muted to match the rest of the room, and there in the midst of it, stood Tony, his lavender robe a shock of light against the muted colours of the library.

"I-" Steve cleared his throat. "I can't be like this. Have this -" he dragged the leg of his jeans upwards, the steal and carbon metal attached to the boot.

"Ouch," Tony's tone was sympathetic, his eyes kind. "I'd heard about that. You against the Firecracker, was it?"

"Yeah, his powers augmented by Chance." A flash of memory, as Firecracker grabbed his ankle, and when it shattered, for the first time, in a damned long while, Steve knew pain. Not annoyance, but pain, an explosion of intense sensation so stunning, his breath caught, and he dropped like a stone, rolling to and fro, breathing between his teeth to prevent him from crying out. " Tony," Steve said, as he started at Tony's reflection in the mirror. "I need a favour."

* * *

Steve had almost begged.

Only pride prevented him from throwing himself at Tony's feet as he talked, keeping his voice calm, and under control. Tony listened, as he stroked his van dyke thoughtfully, or biting his lips as Steve's voice snagged on the final words, his eyes wide, fringed by fair lashes.

"Please," Steve finished, palms upright, his jaw rigid.

In the quiet, the wind blew outside, the deep _tick tock_ of the grandfather clock somewhere in the hall. Trust Steve to bring something like this to his door, he thought. _The next time I say that I'm bored_ , he thought, _I must remember to ask Pepper to set me to rights._

"What you're asking," Tony said finally, "is biologically impossible, I'm afraid. Invertebrates, like the planarians, or starfish, have the capacity to regenerate entire sections. Vertebrates as in, _us_ are not; once the limb is gone, it's done. Phantom pains, the whole lot, you have to embrace it. Only one group - the _urodele amphibians_ can regenerate perfectly complex tissues all over again."

"Also known as salamander."

At Tony's lifted eyebrows, Steve shook his head, gave a grudging grin, Tony always thought of him as sort of knuckle dragging Neanderthal. "I read it on Wikipedia before I came over here."

"This isn't the most straightforward favour, Steve. It's not like me kitting you out with a T'challa suit so you could go play peeping Tom."

"You don't think I know?" Steve didn't lower his gaze. "I'd ask anyone, but Nerd Hulk is crazy and half afraid of his own shadow, Pym is dead, Susan Storm is unavailable-- I can't go back to being that army reject with the gimpy leg, I just _can't_."

"Steve-"

"You had cancer," Steve interrupted. "You know what it's like, searching for a cure. Hoping against -"

"Experience," Tony cut in, his eyes drifting to his drink. "I haven't done serious research in a long time. There's a reason why Gregory has decided to go the way of cybernetics and integrated AI than say, biology and genetics. For one, it's legally a grey area."

"That wouldn't stop you."

 _No_ , Tony thought, _but once upon a time, it might have stopped you_. Suddenly feeling very tired, because Steve had always been that intense, Tony sighed. "Where are you staying? Are you still in that monstrosity over there in-" at this, he gave a delicate shudder. "Brooklyn?"

Steve shook his head. "No. My things are in storage until I find somewhere. I've been-" he rolled his shoulders. "About."

"You can move back in. God knows, the rooms are still here."

"I- I can pay you back," Steve's mouth became a thin line of determination. "I don't know how, or when, but I'll pay you back."

"Like peeling grapes, and fanning me, clad only in a loin cloth?" At Steve's long, fulminating glare, Tony shrugged.

Well. He wasn't bored anymore.

* * *

Tony, damn him, made it easy.

Steve moved back in, the mansion staffed with humans instead of droids. In the way of excellent servants, the chores were done as if by magic, beds straightened, messes whisked away. In the mornings, he'd take the elevator down to the indoor swimming pool, walk over, and methodically, calmly remove his false leg. The foam, so that the stump didn't get irritated, its attachment - he never bothered to learn the terms, because he wasn't going to be like this forever. Steve never looked at the stump, just swung his leg, lowered himself into the water, and pushed off. At least he didn't swim in circles anymore - like when he started swimming for the first time. It still felt awkward - but not as much as before, as he used his shoulders and upper body strength to try and compensate for his missing leg. Steve would swim until he was spent, his eyes reddened from the chlorine, his muscles spasmed from the exertion, and Steve would float on his back, stare at the ceiling above him, until his eyes were blinded with tears.

Days passed, with the papers marking its passage; from _The New York Times_ obit over Steve Rogers' truncated career as a meta human, to _The Post_ running blind items about the Red Skull being his son, and _Us_ unearthing and distributing pin ups of him from the 1930s to now. Steve threw the papers aside, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Never explain, never complain," Tony advised, as he topped off his glass of wine. "That's the way to deal with the press. They'll embroider, and spin, cake on the half truths until the fiction takes on a life of its own."

"Yeah?" Steve speared his scrambled eggs. "I've seen you speak to the press though. Isn't that explaining?"

"I never take my own advice. Besides, if done right, it can work for you, you know. If you want to make it work."

Steve shook his head. "I want my leg back."

"I'm beginning to think that you only want me for my science, Steve." Tony replied. They were eating breakfast on the verandah, overlooking the highly cultivated gardens of the mansion. The lawn was big enough to put in a baseball diamond, and if you looked over yonder, a small orchard of fruit to the side, the trees heavy with fruit and bright with blossoms.

"Probably," Steve said.

"Well," Tony saluted him with his glass. "As long as I know."

 

In the evenings, when the sun went down, Steve and Tony would meet the study, and speak. The territory was neutral, the conversations taken up with science talk. Fall came, with gusty winds, shorter and colder evenings. The fire danced in the hearth, the computers lit with information, as the scientists in Kyoto and Montreal worked through protocols and tests, in territories where stem cell research was legal - sending their information via email, the _whrrr_ as the ink jet printer fired off sheets of information that Tony and Steve pored over.

"Here," Tony said, his shoulder brushing Steve's as Steve sat in front of the desk, looking at the photos and graphs before him. Tony's breath a warm gust of air at his ear, as he explained the studies spread before them.

"Salamander regeneration begins when a clump of cells called a _blastema_ forms at the tip of a lost limb. From the _blastema_ comes skin, muscle, bone, blood vessels and neurons and if we're lucky, _voila_ , a bespoke new limb."

Steve followed Tony's finger, noticed the dusting of hair along his forearm, noticed the flex and contraction of muscles as he drew the studies towards them, with key terms highlighted. There were accompanying line illustrations, and photos taken under powerful microscopes.

"The process is _induced pluripotency_ , " Steve read. "Stem cells from a flake of skin."

"Cloning is terribly 1997, and embryonic stem cells, touchy." Tony agreed, as he picked up another paper print out, peering at the graphs.

Steve read on, shifting through the information. It seemed doable, this sort of science. Most of the terms sounded foreign to him, but he got through, his heart hitching at the possibilities; They had tried rats, and the indications were good.

"If the experiments work, I want to try." Steve said one night. Looking out to nothing, as they stood on the balcony, the brisk wind slapping their faces. After reading a ton of information, Tony had suggested fresh air, and Steve agreed.

"Being a guinea pig again, Steve? That's twice in one lifetime."

"I did it for country."

"The first time, yes," Tony agreed. "Which is probably why you survived, because you _willed_ it to be so. You'd have died in other ways if the experiment hadn't born fruit. Can you honestly say that's the case the second time around?"

Steve didn't answer.

A few days later, the results came in, and Steve read on, eagerly, drawing up short as he came across the contra indications.

"The - they can grow or turn cancerous. They-" he cleared his throat. "They can 't recommend the procedure at this time." Clamping his lips together, Steve circled the information with the pencil he held in his hand.

"I've had my bout with the vile girl," Tony said a couple of minutes later. "You can't swap a sure thing for the spectre of cancer, it's not worth it."

"If it worked though," and Steve knew that he sounded desperate. "I could walk again."

"You're walking now. Without cancer."

"It's not the same."

"No," Tony folded his arms. "It isn't, but a lot of things aren't the same. Like the former Ultimates - "

"I can't go back," Steve pushed himself from the chair, hating the faint smile on Tony's face. "I won't go back to what I was."

"You couldn't even if you tried," Tony said, scanning the information spread on the desk in front of them. "For one, you're still a man out of time- seventy years out of time- to be exact, and two, leg or no leg, you're still the peak of human perfection. There's a reason why Gregory decided to forgo genetics and focus on nanotech and cyber tech instead. You can't be improved on, nor stockpiled. You, Steve Rogers, are the epitome of a _special snowflake_."

"No," Steve threw the pencil on the desk, before he stalked away. "I'm nothing."

* * *

For two days after that, Steve avoided Tony. He avoided Bucky as well, by putting the phone on mute when his name flashed across the screen.

On the third day, ashamed of himself and his behaviour, Steve walked out of his room, and downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs, he saw a butler buffing the banister with a soft cloth.

"Will," Steve greeted, because he hated the thought of just having the help and not ever acknowledging them. "Is Mr Stark back as yet?"

"He's been in his lab for the past two days," Will smiled. Although he was around Jarvis' age, Will was the antithesis of Tony's former butler. He was as placid as Jarvis was fiery, his manner gentle as his sense of humour. "If you do get to see him, tell him that there are other food groups apart from whiskey and potato based liquor?"

"I will."

"And if you could tell him that he needs to turn up at six sharp for supper? For every minute that passes, the ratio of water to his Johnny Walker Red will be sharply affected, and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"I will." Steve said, as he tripped down the stairs. Steve never trusted elevators, when it came to fire, or bombings, they made movement difficult. Give him six flights of stairs every time, and when he got to the entrance, he wasn't surprised when the door opened, with signs asking him to put on an overcoat and gloves. That he did, and stepped into Tony's lab for the first time.

Truth be told, Steve knew that Tony did some sort of work, to earn money, although he'd started off with a modest inheritance. He'd gotten his second PhD at fifteen. According to his biography, he was working eighteen hour days by the time he was old enough to drink in all states, and Tony held his own with the likes of Bruce and Hank and Janet, so theoretically, yeah, Tony could afford to be a smart ass, because he was a smart ass. But seeing Tony like this, clothed - for one- in his house, gave Steve some sort of pause.

Tony's eyes were looking down at something, his hands moving around in some sort of space that Steve couldn't see.

"Stark," Steve greeted, and Tony absently gave a wave, his hands covered in some sort of latex gloves.

"Steve," Tony said, and Steve couldn't see what Tony was working on, due to the barrier between them. Tony made no move to bring it down, and Steve didn't ask. "What brings you down here, then?"

"A message from Will. He's serving dinner at six sharp, and you better be there, or your Johnny Walker Red gets it."

"Ah. He's trying to introduce food into my liquid diet. Has he tried that tired line on you about wheat and potato based drinks? He thinks he's a wit, I haven't the heart to tell him otherwise. Shocking, the way help is nowadays."

"He's trying to save your stomach lining. And your liver."

"Too late," Tony smiled, laugh lines fanning from the corners of his eyes, his grin almost blinding. Huh, Tony probably should work more, it looked good on him. "-Else?"

"What?"

"Anything else?"

"No," Steve said, because it could wait. "I just wanted to tell you that your whiskey was under threat."

Tony nodded, as if people traisping down six flights of stairs to give him a message from the help happened everyday. Steve walked towards the door, drummed his fingers against the door frame and turned around. "About what happened that night - I'm sorry."

"It happens, Steve. It's -"

"I know, I'll see you at dinner," Steve cut him off, not wanting to be _understood_ , because he didn't deserve it. "Six sharp, or else you'll be drinking water."

"Heaven forbid."

Chapter Three

Tony, probably realising that Will meant business, presented himself for dinner, clad in dark slacks and a dress shirt. The table was set for two, and after their meal, Steve finally broke the silence. "I'm moving out," he said.

"To where?" Tony sipped at the liquid in his glass. From his dreamy sigh, it seemed that the liquor escaped the threat of being watered down. "Not that wretched dive you called home?"

"I don't know," Steve admitted. "I thought about leaving New York, going... anywhere. I can't be a super soldier anymore, and I understand that. I just... " he kept his eyes on the table, as he felt his lower lip tremble. "I never expected to be a relic."

" _Steve_."

"It's true," Steve said. "You know what? As much as I hated the fact that Fury and men like him made all those yahoos into freaks of nature in order to replicate what I was, I felt pretty smug, so damned smug being the only super soldier to date. I couldn't be replaced, I -"

"You liked it. You liked being _the_ super soldier." Tony's voice was lightly mocking, an aural nudge. "Who would have thought?"

"I believed in it," Steve lowered his eyes to his empty plate. "And when I lost my leg - I thought if I worked harder, I could bring it back, but I'll never be the same. The _Vanity Fair_ cover and the article only drew a line underneath my injury. Have you read it?"

"Some," Tony admitted, as he circled the glass with his finger. "It was respectful, very well done. Hitchens outdid himself; you almost were moved to tears at the thought of the American military complex, and how they wreathed propaganda with strong imagery and sank enough gold to give Fort Knox the tremors. The Last Great War, the last war with a moral centre. The metaphor of the sun setting on you, and what warfare was versus what it is right now. You, swathed in Gregory Stark gear, it's fitting, moving from central government control to corporate interests. Its-"

"It's broken." Steve chewed his lower lip. "For the first time in my life, I'm just here. Growing up, I've always wanted to be with Gail and to serve my country. I served my country, for what it's worth."

Tony exhaled on a gust of breath. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Steve admitted. "Being a Nomad sounds fitting, and doing the road trips I've seen in the movies sounds appealing, but-"

"Well, I've a present for you." Tony clapped sharply, and it had to be some sort of signal, because a man servant came in, with a long, plain box, and handed it to Steve.

"Not another piece of war memorabilia."

"It's a little something I whipped up. It might come in useful."

Steve took the box from the manservant, and ripped at the tape and tissue paper, digging down until his fingers touched something solid, and smooth. Puzzled now, Steve lifted it out of the box, and hefted it in his hand. It was a -

"Made from a polymer about forty percent lighter than what you find in normal prosthesis. If you're willing to stay, we can tweak it, so that it feels a part of you."

Steve stared, just stared. "I just-"

"The next war might be genetic," Tony smiled. "Until that gets sorted, sans cancerous growths, I think this will hold you for a while."

"I-" and the following words were the hardest worlds that Steve had ever uttered. "I don't know if I'm going to ever be a super anything again, Tony. You know that, right?"

"We'll make do, I'm sure." Tony didn't seem that bothered about Steve probably being less than. "So, do you want to slip into something a bit more revealing, so we can take a look at that leg?"

Steve laughed, and for the first time since everything, he thought that things might be okay. "After dessert," he said.

Fin.


End file.
